


La Donna Del Lago

by KyaniteD



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-09
Updated: 2007-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5320364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyaniteD/pseuds/KyaniteD





	La Donna Del Lago

 

With the first intake of the crisp morning air I am finally fully awake. As always, I start on the east side of the lake. The mountains surrounding this seemingly calm and small but really dark and cold and viciously deep water hole rise several thousand feet into the sky and it is only in the summer months that the sun reaches the water surface. The rest of the year the lake lies in the shadows of the mountains, sleeping, lurking.  
  
It's summer, and while this slope on the east side is still covered in darkness, the sun climbs up behind the mountain, bathing the snow-covered crests on the west side in a warm yellow light. And as the sun rises further, the light wanders down the slopes and across the valley, until it reaches the lake. By then, the sun is so high that most of the light is swallowed by the eerily calm and dark water. Only a fraction of it is reflected, adding some blue highlights to the general blackness and making the wicked currents, which have taken so many lives since I have been here, visible. There's no way to save them, not from their own stupidity, and not from the lake.  
  
I walk along the beach, which is really just a broad strip of gravel around the lake, and the pebbles crunch under my boots. I love that sound. I need it, in the morning hours, when no one else is up and around, when I'm alone, alone with the lake.

My tour has become routine. I follow the course of the sun, turning southward. I learned that I have to keep the sun on my back to be able to watch the lake. You can't save them, but you have to try, or at least get them out, even if it is much too late. It doesn't keep its prey. It swallows them, once, twice, thrice, before they float to the surface. Sometimes there are small waves swaying them back and forth, and it feels like it's boasting, taunting us.

Some have said it's rocking them like a cradle. It was tourists who said that. But this water is no cradle. Apparently woken by the commotion at the beach and the unfamiliar sound of the motorboat, they were too curious to not come down in their morning gowns and worn out sweaters.

They don't know the lake. They have heard all the stories. That's why they are here. They think they know, but that's their stupidity, that's what kills them, one by one, each year. You can't save them. Not one has been saved since I've been here. But they won't learn, and I grow tired of warning them.

* * *

 

No one lives on the south side of the lake. The sun never reaches this part of the valley. It's always dark here, and rather cool, even in the summer. But crazy as the people here are, there is a small vineyard at the foot of the mountain. There are vineyards on the other side of the lake, too, but that's the wine they sell to the tourists, as a souvenir. Those grapes are tiny, but the wine is oddly sweet and heavy on the tongue. One glass already dulls the senses, makes them stupid.

But that's the one for the tourists. The people here, those who belong here, they only drink the wine from the southern vineyard. The grapes are just as small, but the vine is sour, and every sip causes a shudder.

I never understood why the people who live so high in the mountains not only endure, but practically embrace and welcome hardship and discomfort. I don't know if I will ever learn that this helps them to appreciate the less dire conditions and circumstances. Because that's the best they will ever get up here, less dire, almost warm, not so hard… It will never be easy up here, none of them will ever be carefree, and there is no true frolicking or joviality. Their faces always look sullen, even when they smile.

But as rare as these smiles are, they're always genuine.

  
The direction of my steps slowly changes from westward to northward. On the slopes on the west side of the lake are about two dozen small log cabins. In the summer, on weekends, they are rented by couples. There are seldom kids here. And never any of  _them_ , the stupid, the greedy, the arrogant. The lovers are safe. We never found any of the cabin residents out there. In the evening they all sit on the porch, holding hands or cuddling, while watching the reflection of the setting sun on the glacier face in the east. They mind themselves, they ignore the water, and it seems that the lake appreciates it.  
  
From here I can see the northern shoreline; the beach and the embankment with its few cafes. This is the village; this is where life is and happens. This is the sunny side. This is where the people are, and a bit further up the slope there are the few mountain pastures where the cattle stay all through the summer. It's a curious strain they breed here. It's small, barely twelve hands high, fairly sturdy and with a rough, gray fur. They don't give as much milk as the usual, overbred dairy cattle from the southern plains. But they are robust; they withstand the rough climate and are content with the meager food they find on these high pastures.

Each year there are kids who keep some of the calves as their pets. They leash them and guide them around, and soon the young animals follow them wherever they go, even without being guided on a rope or with a crop. I saw the kids taking their afternoon nap next to these animals, using them as pillows or just snuggling up to their warm bodies. When the summer is over, the children go up to collect the village's cattle. Given their treatment as calves, the animals follow them willingly down the slope, in a long trail on narrow, sometimes rocky or muddy paths.  
  
As I come closer, I can see the embankment cafés. So early into the day they have no patrons yet; but as expected, there is one figure sitting there, close to the railing, under one of the sunshades, drinking coffee. I'm still too far away, but I know she is wearing her sunglasses, and her face is turned southward, toward the lake. She's been sitting there as long as I have been here. I know she wasn't here for long before I came to this valley.

During my first winter here, when I was taking my daily hikes around the lake, she always sat there, in the same spot, at the same table. The café was closed and the sunshades had been taken down. But she was sitting there, looking over the railing at the lake. On New Year's Day, the café owner visited her and brought her a thermos flask with coffee. And ever since, when she's sitting up there, there is always the same thermos flask on the table beside her, always filled with a fresh brew of the steamy, aromatic beverage.

 

* * *

  
  
We both pretend.  
  
We both pretend we do not belong here. But every day she's sitting up there, drinking her coffee, and every Christmas Eve I find a bottle of the wine from the southern vineyard on my doorstep.  
  
I have tried to see or find what she is looking at. But her eyes are always hidden behind those sunglasses, and her face only gives away the general direction, which seems to be the lake.  
  
Now she is sitting there, completely still, staring, as always. I'm always here at the same time, and she is always here when I am here. I only miss our rendezvous when another one of  _them_  is found and I have to take care of it. There are no police up here, I'm the only law enforcement they have up here. But I'm more of a naturalist than a ranger or a cop.   
  
I cringe every time there's another to retrieve.  
  
To them, I'm Olly, an odd nickname derived from Oliva, which I was called the first years because of the color of my uniform. I hated that name, and I still don't like it. But just as these people are robust, they are stubborn, so there was nothing I could do. I'm Olly. And she is La Donna. Originally it was La Donna Del Lago, and it was said in jest, but when I hear them talk, they still call her La Donna.  
  
From what I have seen of her face she is beautiful. She must be close to my age, but when I steal a glance at her it seems that over the last twelve years, she hasn't aged, hasn't changed. Her face is expressionless; there is never a smile or frown, I have never seen her squinting or just reacting to anything that is going on around her. For brief moments I have found myself wondering if she ever tasted the sour wine from the southern vineyard, and if it contorts her face like it does everyone else's.  
  
I have come to admire her persistence, her resolve to come down to the embankment every single day to sit down and watch the lake. In my mind she has become the iron lady, who never smiles, never answers. I have stopped to call out to her from the beach after a few weeks. Apparently, she was not interested in conversations or company. I left her alone, ignored her and went on to complete my walk on the 'beach'. Sometimes, especially in winter, when it was always dark and I truly felt alone on my rounds, I felt comforted by the thought and the knowledge that she was there, watching the lake, and watching me. Sometimes, on bad days, I leaned on her strength without her knowledge. Sometimes it was only the thought that she was there, maybe waiting, that made me get up before sunrise.   
  
One day, we got a false alarm from one of the tourists. When we got out on the lake, steering the boat closer to what was drifting on the water, we found only a log.  
There is never any flotsam on this lake or being washed onto its shores. There are only a few creeks originating in the mountains, but there are no trees up there. No one knew where the log came from.  
  
When I returned to where I had interrupted my inspection of the beach and the search of the lake's surface for one of  _them_ , I noticed her sitting in her usual spot. But she wasn't wearing her sunglasses and I suddenly felt like I had caught her off-guard. When I came close, I noticed that she was crying, and she was looking at me. In that moment, I felt like I was stabbed. She had caught  _me_  off-guard. She had seen my curiosity and my admiration. Terrified, I turned and ran, completing my round on the east side in a jog.  
  
They had built a small cabin for me on the east side of the lake, close to the water. The boat was tied to one of the poles that held the short pontoon bridge in place.  
I went inside and made myself some tea. They drink coffee up here, or hot milk, or in the winter, sometimes, also hot wine. Tea, they say here, is medicine and only for those who are sick. I had stopped to wonder a few years ago. I got used to it, to everything, the people, the climate, the customs, the cuisine,  _her_.  
  
She had become one of the fixed, unshakable, unquestioned constants in my life here. She was part of it, and sometimes, she even mattered, because there were those days when I was weak and I just knew for sure she would be strong, out there, watching, and waiting.

But that day she had been sitting there, crying. She had looked at me and I saw a question there in her eyes, between the tears, that I did not want to see, did not want to hear, one I could not answer. She was supposed to be strong, and now she had shown me her weakness. I saw she was human. And I knew the pain she must have felt and endured all those hours, days, years out there, on the embankment.  
I realized that I did not want to know that she felt pain, that she was vulnerable.  
  
The next day I dreaded to get up and leave the cabin. For the first time in twelve years, I did not want to go, even after I had dressed and put on my boots. I dreaded seeing her again. But I knew I had to go, because it was my job.  
  
When I came to the northern shore, my original fear of facing her was replaced by another dread: She was not there. In front of "her" table stood the café owner's son, holding the thermos flask and looking confused. I told him to leave the coffee on the table and go home. I figured that, as unlikely as it might be, she could just be late and would appreciate it if her coffee was delivered as usual. I had to finish my round, but resolved to come back to the café later.  
  
When I returned, she was sitting there, drinking her coffee. She turned to me when she heard me approaching. She took off her sunglasses and smiled at me apologetically. I returned the smile, glad that she was there, but unsure what to expect from the woman who had been here with me for twelve years, but never acknowledged my presence.  
  
She beckoned me to come up to her, and I obeyed.  
  
When I was standing next to her, she lightly pulled on my sleeve, and without giving it any thought I went down to kneel by her side. We were both facing the lake and no words were spoken. She took my hat and put it on the table beside her. She guided my head to rest against her thigh, and while we were watching the lake together, she lightly combed her fingers through my hair.  
I never thought anyone would ever touch me like this again. I had come here to find solitude, to be alone without being all alone. I chose this life, I wanted to be here.  
  
Since that day it had become our ritual. After my first walk around the lake I meet her on the embankment, kneel down beside her to let my head rest against her thigh while she caresses me, gently, almost as if she is petting a cat. And together we watch the lake.  
  
As I pass by her now, she ignores me, keeping her face turned to the lake. I will return later.  
In the winter I had experienced what it really meant to be sitting there for a couple of hours. I brought blankets for us, and I was almost surprised when she accepted the one I gave her.  
  
We still haven't spoken a word. In twelve years of solitude one gets used to the silence. And there is no need to speak, as there is nothing to speak of. Even during the winter, I joined her every day. I haven't missed one day.  
In the winter, the lake seems to sleep in the dim light.  _They_  don't come up here during the winter months. The mountains not only shield the valley from the sunlight, but also from most of the precipitation. We don't get much snow here. In the winter, it's only cold and dark. But I haven't missed one day. I couldn't. I have come to crave, to need her touch.  
  
The one hour before noon, when we are sitting there, we are Olly e La Donna. Lately, I've heard them whisper 'Olly e La sua Donna'. But she is not mine. If anything, I am hers.  
  
We both pretend that we do not belong here. But just as these people are robust, they are stubborn, so there is nothing we could do. They have claimed us, as the lake had claimed us and bound us to this place.  
  
That day, when she was crying, there was something else. It was not just a question, or simple sadness. There was disappointment clearly written over her face. Almost despair. She knew we only found a piece of wood that day. And when she looked at me, she wished that we had found one of  _them_. That's what terrified me. She wished we had pulled out another one. How could she. How could she wish for death like that, so selfishly?  
  
As I sat with her, day after day, I slowly started to understand. And one day, it suddenly all made sense. She had given her heart away, but realized too late that she had given it to a fool. In a haze, he must have taken it to the lake, and the lake preys on fools and swallows them, once, twice, thrice, before they drift to the surface to be gently swayed back and forth by the small waves. We never found a cabin resident out there. So she was sitting here, day after day, waiting for her heart to be returned to her, hoping every day to hear the motorboat, hoping every day, I would bring back what had been taken from her.  
  
That day, all I brought was a lump of rotten wood.

* * *

  
  
I know why she doesn't move. It's for the same reason why I moved. We're here for the same reason. I came here. And she is staying here. We've been here for too long, we became addicted to the silence, the solitude, and each other's presence. I learned that it is possible to share solitude, to be lonely together without being alone. Every day that I come and join her she knows I care, and when she caresses my hair I know that she cares.  
  
There is not much more to give or take.  
  
We do not have that sullen expression on our faces, and we also do not appreciate the sour wine from the southern vineyard. But we are where we belong; we are Olly e La sua Donna, and we're waiting for a heart.

 

* * *

 


End file.
